


The Currency of Allegiance

by prairiecrow



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-04
Updated: 2011-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-22 05:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prairiecrow/pseuds/prairiecrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything can change in the course of single decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Currency of Allegiance

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Set in early S3, after "Civil Defense" (3x07). 2) Sequel to "The Politics of Security".

Darkness. The memory of pain. My first thought is: _I should be dead._ My second thought is the totality of you: your scent, your laughter, the heat of your golden skin and the smooth contours of your elegant face — are you still alive? Did I succeed?

My third thought is that the rules by which I've always lived have been irrevocably altered, and that in many ways I would have been better off dying for my folly than having to live with the consequences of it.

I'm still absorbing the impact of that prospect when I hear someone approaching the biobed I'm lying on. Of course I'm in the Infirmary: the smells and sounds and quality of light are unmistakable, even with my eyes closed. I know it's you before you speak, your voice gentle but firm: "Garak?"

For a couple of seconds I consider feigning unconsciousness… but that would only be postponing the inevitable. With some difficulty I open my eyes. The damnable glare of the overhead panels casts you into silhouette and traces a halo along the darkness of your hair. "Doctor?" I sound weak in my own ears and try again, managing to achieve some volume this time. "Are you —?"

"I'm fine." You lay a hand lightly on my wrist, applying reassuring pressure that would not be taken amiss by anyone happening to see the gesture. "Odo incapacitated the gunman before he could take a second shot."

I have to close my eyes again briefly, weakened all over again by the sheer force of my own relief. It had been so close. A second's hesitation on my part — a half second's hesitation — and you would have been gone…

We had just finished having our weekly lunch and were walking back towards my shop, continuing our discussion on the relative merits of Thomas Hardy and Shogoth. It was an exceptionally busy afternoon on the Promenade: the station was full of Bajorans gathering as close to their Celestial Temple as possible for the festival of Namor-Koth and our progress was somewhat slowed by their numbers. Not that I was inclined to complain: after all, time spent with you is never time wasted, it seems.

We'd crossed into a small open space in the crowd, still talking — and that's when I saw the flash of familiar movement at the edge of the loose circle of pedestrians around us, three point two meters to our left: a disruptor being drawn from inside a jacket. I had just enough time to register the general shape of its wielder, a male Bajoran, and to determine where it was being aimed: at the centre of your chest.

The universe instantly contracted to that small space along the line of fire between the Bajoran and you. We were in the middle of the walkway with no cover close enough to shove you behind and you were still talking, your earnest gaze fixed on the side of my face. You'd lost the precious second that might have granted you an attempt to dodge or attack, and that left me with three choices: get away myself, stay where I was, or…

I stepped in front of you, looked the Bajoran in the eyes and prayed to the non-existent Hebitian Gods that he wasn't inclined to murder an apparently innocent bystander.

But of course in the eyes of a Bajoran no Cardassian is _ever_ innocent. The assassin never even blinked. His finger tightened on the trigger, and I had time enough to reflect that the Central Command would be absolutely livid when they heard that their agent on Deep Space Nine had effectively committed suicide before —

— before a golden blur snaked out of the crowd and struck the gunman's right arm just as the disrupter discharged. A flash of white light filled my vision as heat exploded across my left side: Odo had deflected the weapon enough that its beam had grazed me rather than striking me directly. The screams of the watching crowd reached me only distantly; I was falling, and the last thing I was aware of was your voice crying my name — _"Garak!"_ — before everything went black…

… which brings me to where I am now, lying on a biobed feeling like I've been landed on by a runabout, with you standing over me and looking down on me with those soulful hazel eyes. Perhaps it's merely an aftereffect of almost dying but the sight of them fills me with uncharacteristic gratitude and surprisingly intense longing. I want to reach up and pull you down and kiss you until neither of us can breathe — quite out of the question given the circumstances, but that doesn't make the emotion any less savage.

Instead I manage a thin smile and remark: "I see. And has he figured out why you'd be a target?"

An adorable little frown creases your finely drawn brows. "Not yet. But you know Odo — it's only a matter of time."

I nod, not at all happy with the fact that for the moment I'm not in fit condition to protect you from anything. You don't know it yet, but I'll be taking up residence in your quarters until this unpleasant situation has been resolved, in spite of whatever objections you might —

Your fingers tighten on my wrist. In a lower voice you murmur: "I thought you said that your life wasn't yours to give."

I'm surprised that you remember that conversation, held several weeks ago. "It wasn't," I reply, suddenly too tired to be evasive. My eyes drift closed again as I feel the full weight of the past tense dividing one life from another, separating devotion to the ideal from devotion to the entirely personal. It is a sensation of being lost in a closely bounded space, of falling while embraced and surrendering to fascination. I'm not sure yet whether or not I can live with it.

I may have no choice. Instinct is not often amenable to sheer force of will. When did my reflexes change so profoundly? Does it matter in the final analysis?

And you understand at least the outlines of this. I'll have to live with that as well. I can only hope that you do not make it too unbearable for me, in your naive Human enthusiasm. _Go gently on me, Julian,_ I almost whisper. _I am not like you. Your declarations are heartfelt and simplistic. Mine… oh, mine are never given without a price being paid. And when Cardassia hears of this there will be a reckoning, though you will never know it if I can prevent it._

 _And if it comes down to a choice…_

After a moment you slide your fingers down to entwine with mine. I can hear the smile in your voice. Is that a hint of triumph as well? "You should rest. Don't worry, there's plenty of security stationed at the door. Nobody's getting in here without authorization."

"Or out," I add wryly.

A squeeze of your fingers before they withdraw. "Or out. Try to get some sleep. I'll be right here to keep an eye on things." _On me, you mean,_ I muse, but I don't see any point in saying that aloud. "You should be out of here in a few hours, _if_ you're good and don't try to overexert yourself."

"I'm always good," I protest virtuously, even though I know we're well past the point where I can fool you in that regard. I hazard a glance up at you and now I can see that smile, wide and brilliant and yes, triumphant — and that satisfaction, my dear, is yours by right of conquest. Some might say that Cardassia abandoned me first, but I have never once considered forsaking her in all my long years of exile — until now, when a decision made in the space of a heartbeat changed everything.

You offer a final fond gaze and take your leave to fulfill your duties to Starfleet… but for the first time in many years, I find that I do not feel alone. Whether this is a benediction or a curse remains to be seen. I suspect it will prove to be something of both.

THE END


End file.
